Love is a fire that burns unseen
by Kai Maciel
Summary: After the devasting fires of 2017, Portugal is left badly injured and feeling even more of a failure as a country. After passing out during a world meeting, he is taken to his hotel room to rest, but instead, he gets several visitors.


_Love is a fire that burns unseen,_

 _A wound that aches yet isn't felt,_

 _An always discontent contentment,_

 _A pain that rages without hurting,_

 _A longing for nothing but to long,_

 _A loneliness in the midst of people,_

 _A never feeling pleased when pleased,_

 _A passion that gains when lost in thought._

Luis Vaz de Camões, **The Lusiads**

 _2017_

He could still hear them screaming. Every time he let his mind wander, Portugal could hear the screams of his people trapped by smoke and fire. Men and women screaming for their lives, watching helplessly as their homes and fields burned to ash. Children crying for their parents, mothers, and fathers screaming for their children.

Some had been trapped inside their cars, unable to escape the fire.

Wincing, he buried his nails on his palms to drive those thoughts away and once again tried to listen to the world meeting in front of him. America was trading words with Russia again. Like many times before, Ivan denied knowing anything that Alfred was talking about. This meeting was going to take a while and everyone already looked tired and depressed.

Portugal tried to listen to his fellow countries, but his burnt back was aching badly under his heavy black suit and his head felt heavy and sluggish.

Why was he in this meeting at all? He knew it was just a formal courtesy. Many of the countries present didn't even know who he was, and those who did know didn't think much of him.

He was a failure. The fact that he had once been an Empire was laughable considering how much he had failed as a country. He would never be like Spain, France or England. He should never have tried.

Speaking of which, Portugal's green eyes widened as he watched England rise from his seat and walk towards the podium.

It had been 631 years since the Treaty of Windsor when Portugal and England had forged their alliance. He could still remember that day vividly: young, belligerent England, with his blond hair and bright green eyes, promising to help him kick Spain's ass out of his territory. They both promised to watch each other's back as allies and friends forever.

Portugal had been happy, finally having a friend on his side against Spain's many, many, many attempts to conquer him. And not just any friend. England! It made sense strategically, Spain and later France and always been a pain on both their necks, but now Portugal didn't have to fight them alone.

Watching England now, he tried to catch his friend's eyes. He heard the smoke from the fires had reached the English shores, painting their skies red. He had hoped England would call him, ask him if he was alright, but he got no word.

Portugal lowered his head, facing his bandaged hands in front of him. He understood though, England had his fair share of problems, especially now with Brexit and a very tense political climate. Arthur was under a lot of stress and he looked miserable.

If Portugal wanted to be honest with himself, he always knew their friendship was very one-sided. He had needed England more than England had needed him, and he knew he could never measure up to his friend's caliber. Sometimes, he had the feeling England felt embarrassed by the treaty, wishing he had made an alliance with a better, richer, stronger country instead.

No friendship ever lasted forever.

The cellphone in his pants' pocket buzzed, forcing Portugal to pick it up. He felt a lump inside his throat when he saw it was from one of his superiors.

Trying to appear calm, he silently rose from his seat and walked out of the white meeting room. England was having a very heated argument with France and Germany, so no one even noticed that he had left.

Finally, alone in a corridor, Portugal took a deep breath and finally took the call. As he expected, he was greeted by his superior's angry voice. They asked about the fires, how he could have allowed this to happen, how he was going to get the money to rebuild everything that had been destroyed.

"I'll get the money... somehow. I just need a little time," he answered, feeling his legs shaking. "And I will do better from now on. You have my word."

"Your word? Every year we go through this! Fires and more fires because you don't clean the forests properly!"

"There were... suspicions about arson..."

"I don't care if it was arson! That only proves that you can't even look after yourself!"

Portugal bit his lower lip. The superior was right. Every year there were fires and every year he promised he was going to prevent them. Do better.

He couldn't keep his promise. Now, his people were hurt, most of his forests were gone, and it was all his fault.

"The Pine Forest of Leiria..." he whispered.

"Gone! It's all gone!"

Portugal's mouth dropped. "All... all of it?"

"About 80% is gone."

His hands began to shake. The Pine Forest, all those tall and green pine trees, planted by the shore to protect the crops from the sands, the trees he had used to build the Caravelas, so wherever he was sailing it always felt like home.

Now it was gone.

His superior kept barking on the phone, but Portugal could barely listen. His legs gave away and he slid down to the ground, his vision blurry as he panted. He was burning, just like the trees and the fields and his people...

"... ashamed to be called a European country... world's laughing stock... a nobody..."

The cellphone slipped from Portugal's hands and lied face down on the expensive carpet, muffling the sound of his superior's voice. He pressed his sweaty forehead against the wall, his brown hair already wet, and thought of the Atlantic Ocean, it's cold waves against his aching skin, the wind blowing his long hair, the white sails of the Caravelas above him.

 _Love is a fire that burns unseen,_

 _A wound that aches yet isn't felt,_

 _An always discontent contentment,_

 _A pain that rages without hurting_

He woke up lying on his stomach on something soft, with a cool breeze on his face from an open window, white curtains blowing softly.

"Portugal? Are you awake?"

Slowly, he raised his green eyes and found a young Asian man with kind light-brown eyes staring back under a pair of glasses.

"Macau?"

His former colony smiled and pulled a chair. "How are you feeling?"

Portugal tried to stand up, but a strong hand pushed him down against the soft bed.

"Lie down! I don't want you to faint again," a firm woman's voice said on his left side, forcing the older country to turn his head to face her.

A young black woman was holding bandages and ointments on her hands, her brown eyes focused on Portugal's burnt back as she worked. A yellow ribbon kept her long hair from falling down her face.

"Hello, Angola," Portugal said with a weak smile.

Angola sighed but kept working on cleaning and bandaging his back.

"What were you thinking? Coming here when you're this hurt?" she asked him.

Portugal lowered his eyes. "I thought I should show up... But you're right, I shouldn't have come."

"Damn right, you shouldn't!" an angry voice cried out from outside the hotel room. It seemed its source was leaning against the door.

"Brazil?" Portugal asked.

Even though he couldn't see him, Portugal could almost see Brazil's green eyes roll. "No, it's Fafá de Belém. Of course it's me!"

Macau smiled as he leaned over his adopted older brother. "When we heard that you had collapsed, Angola and I came running. Brazil overheard us and insisted on coming too."

"I did not insist on coming! I just wanted to make sure the old man was dead!" Brazil cried out. "So I could throw a party!"

"He was praying the Rosary up until a few minutes ago," Angola said.

"I was praying for that thieving bastard to die!"

"I could hear him crying."

"I wasn't fucking crying, Angola! Shut up!"

Macau chuckled while Angola simply shrugged and continued bandaging Portugal's back, while Brazil sulked on the other side of the door. After a few minutes, Angola was done, and Portugal was able to raise his head to face his former colonies, his former adopted brothers, and sister.

"Thank you for coming, Angola. Macau," he moved his head in the doors direction and shouted. "You too, Brazil."

"I didn't come help you, babaca!" the South American country shouted back.

Rolling her eyes, Angola rose from her chair. "Well, you should be alright now. Get some rest."

"Thank you, Angola."

Macau also stood up and placed a heavy envelope on Portugal's hands. The older country's eyes widened when he realized it was money.

"Macau! I... thank you, but I can't accept this!" Portugal said, shaking his head and trying to give back the money, but Macau wouldn't take it.

"It's not much, but I want help you rebuild what the fires took."

"I can't take your money, Macau. You've done enough for me. I don't know how to repay you."

"Please, don't let your pride get in the way. I don't want you to repay me, I want to help. You're family," Macau said, placing his hand on Portugal's shoulder. "We'll always be family. Let me help you, dàgē."

Slowly, Portugal's hand closed around the envelope, his eyes brimming with tears. Even though he tried to control his emotions, tears were very difficult for him to stop.

"Obrigado."

"Stop sucking up to the old man, Macau!" Brazil yelled from the other side of the door.

"That's it!" Angola opened the door, causing a young, tanned man to fall to the room's floor. He quickly stood up, glaring at his adopted sister.

"What the fuck, Angola?!"

"That's what you get for being a jealous brat."

"Jealous?! I'm not jealous!" Brazil's eyes caught sight of Portugal's burnt and bandaged body on the hotel bed.

They so much looked alike. Out of his former colonies, Brazil was the one who resembled Portugal the most. They had the same green eyes and the same brown hair, though Brazil's was shorter and messier. He was wearing a yellow and green bandana around his head.

"Olá, Brasil," Portugal said, turning around so he could face him, though every movement was painful on his sensitive skin.

Brazil's cheeks turned bright red and he burst out of the room, followed closely by an angry Angola and a smiling, apologetic Macau who closed the door before once again urging Portugal to rest.

The older country did just that. Thanks to Angola's care, his back felt a lot better and he was finally able to lay back against the cushions and sleep for a few hours.

He woke up when he felt someone sitting on his bed.

The window had been closed and the sun was down, leaving his room dark except for the lights coming from the TV screen. Portugal looked at the foot of his bed, where he could see the silhouette of someone with a wrinkled shirt and short dark hair eating a tomato salad.

Portugal knew that head like the back of his hand.

"Spain?"

Spain got up from the bed so fast that he almost dropped his salad. He faced Portugal, his eyes wide and his cheeks red.

"I... I thought you were asleep!"

Portugal blinked and pointed at the foot of the bed. "I was, but you sat down on my right foot."

Spain looked at the bed then at Portugal before putting down his salad. "Right. Huh... Sorry, about that."

"It's okay."

"Can I sit down?" Spain pointed at the empty space beside Portugal rather than at the perfectly good chair on his side.

"Huh... Sure."

Almost shyly, Spain sat down on the bed beside him, taking off his shoes so he could cross his legs on the bed.

For a while, neither country said anything. They stood silently, watching some action movie on the screen, though neither was paying attention.

Portugal stared at his neighbor. For centuries, Spain had been his worst enemy, the reason he kept a weapon under his pillow in case of a surprise attack.

Spain was powerful and he made no secret that he wanted to own the entire Iberian Peninsula. Portugal was that little rectangle of land that stood in the way of his goal. Even though he wasn't considered as much of a threat as France or England, Spain had been relentless in trying to invade him.

For almost eight centuries they had been enemies and rivals, and Spain had almost succeeded taking Portugal more than once. But Portugal didn't want to be another part of Spain, he would rather die or drown in the ocean before that happened.

The rest of the world thought they were very similar, however, they could only see what made them different.

Then, as the years went by and both their empires fell, something began to change between them. Portugal wanted to keep what little he had left while Spain was ravaged by one civil war after the other. Before they realized, the world had moved on while they stood the same. The time for war over land was done.

Even though they couldn't forget their troubled past, they could try to be something more than old enemies.

"Antonio?" Portugal asked, using Spain's human name. That seemed to surprise the other country.

"What?"

"I... I never got a chance to thank you... for the fires," Portugal said, trying to look Spain in the eye. "You sent your firefighters to help me and you didn't have to do it. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been able to stop them."

Spain's green eyes, so like Portugal's, widened. "Of course I was going to help you! I wasn't going to let you burn!"

It was Portugal's turn to look confused. "You weren't?"

Spain raised his hands in the air. "Of course not!"

"Oh..." feeling embarrassed, Portugal looked away, his fingers toying with the silver crucifix around his neck.

"You thought that, didn't you? You thought I was going to happily let you burn!"

"Antonio... I'm sorry..."

Before he could finish, Spain grabbed him by his wrists and wrestled him until he was on top of him.

"Espanha!" Portugal cried out, shocked by Spain's actions. Before he could kick his neighbor out, he felt a drop of water fall on his cheek.

No. Not water. Tears.

Proud, strong, boisterous Spain was crying on top of him.

"I feel... I feel like I'm falling apart," Spain told him, letting his tears fall freely. "I used to be so powerful and strong and now... now everything is going wrong. I lost everything and now even my own land is fighting each other."

As it became obvious that Spain wasn't attacking him, Portugal relaxed, his wrist going limp on Antonio's grip.

"Sometimes... Sometimes I feel so lonely, Afonso."

Portugal's mouth dropped. It had been so long since anyone had used his human name. He couldn't even remember the last time Spain had called him by that name.

Apparently, he wasn't very good at hiding his surprise because Spain immediately reacted to his expression.

"You didn't think I remembered your name, did you?" Spain asked with a sad smile.

Portugal could have lied, but he knew he couldn't fool him.

"I thought I was too insignificant for you to remember."

Spain seemed taken aback by his words. "Is that what you think about yourself? That you're insignificant?"

Portugal opened his mouth to speak but staring at Spain's earnest expression killed his words before they reached his mouth. Instead, he looked away.

"Afonso?"

"I'm not you, Antonio. I tried to be strong and proud, but I'm none of these things. I don't matter... people barely know I exist. If I disappeared, no one would notice."

Spain let go of his wrist and grabbed his chin, forcing him to face him.

"You matter to _me_ ," Antonio said.

"Spain… don't—"

"If you died, I would notice."

"You wouldn't. You would forget. You have so many friends…"

"You're my brother!"

With that, Spain buried his face on Portugal's neck and wrapped his hands around his waist. Feeling Spain's body pressed against his own, left Portugal speechless, his body and mind still trying to understand what had just happened.

"Spain...?"

"Te veo, hermano. Yo siempre te vi."

Feeling a knot growing inside his throat and tears in his eyes, Portugal slowly wrapped his bandaged arms around Spain.

"Eu também te vejo, irmão. I see you."

They stood like that for a while, let all the past fights and resentments go as they hugged each other. They were not sure they were real brothers, no one knew for sure, but there was something between them that united them in ways no other country had.

They were made from the same land, water and rocks.

After a while, Portugal chuckled.

"What?" Spain asked, his head still buried on his shoulder.

"I was just thinking of the time when you and France tried to invade me together. You know, with Napoleon?"

Remembering that Spain lifted his head and stared at Portugal blushing.

"Why are you bringing that up?"

"I never got a chance to ask and I'm curious. You and France were going to invade me, and each was going to get half of me, right?" Portugal asked with a mischievous smile on his face, while Spain's became as red as the tomatoes he loved so much.

"That doesn't matter now! France invaded _me_ , remember?!"

"Yeah, but I want to know, Antonio. If you had succeeded, which half of me were you going to take?"

"Portugal!"

"Was it going to be the top half?" Portugal smile grew even wider as he pointed towards his lips, his neck, his chest, and abdomen.

At this point, Spain was so red that his skin irradiated heat.

"Or was it going to be the bottom half?" he asked, his hand reaching his thigh and then his...

"Stop!" Spain cried out, grabbing both his hands and pulling them on top of his head, while their lips were only inches apart.

"Brother..." Portugal whispered, feeling Spain ragged breathing against his face.

At that moment, they heard the hotel room opening followed by an angry cry.

"Bloody hell!"

The two Iberian countries looked up to see a red and furious England at the door, followed by France who, after seeing Spain lying on top of Portugal, holding his fists above his head while they were both blushing and panting, could only smile.

"Oh, mon Dieu! It seems we are interrupting, England. We should have knocked."

However, England didn't seem to have heard him. All the blond's attention seemed focused on the way Spain was holding Portugal's hands while hovering over Portugal's naked torso.

"Get off him, you Spanish wanker!" he yelled before throwing himself at Spain and kicking him out of the bed.

Portugal tried to pull his oldest ally from his brother but to no avail, while France sat by the bed and seemed to be enjoying the whole thing.

The fight lasted all night. By the time the sun came out, the hotel room was trashed, someone had thrown the tv out of the window, the minibar was empty, several bottles of alcohol were empty, and every country involved was naked.

Sitting on one corner unabashedly with his legs wide open and smoking a cigarette, France smiled at the scene before him.

"What a wonderful night, non? Just like old times!" France said, rubbing a bite mark on his left buttock.

"Shut up, you frog," England groaned, wrapping his arms around Portugal's neck while his foot pushed Spain away.

"Arthur, why are you wearing my crucifix?" Portugal asked, his head pounding from the hangover and who know what else. "Around your ankle?"

"So that God can help me keep the devil away," England answered, pulling his friend even closer while his foot kicked Spain's back.

"Ouch! Stop that, you damn pirate!" Spain moaned. Surprisingly, sitting on Spain's lap was none other than South Italy, angrily holding a bottle of red wine. "Romano? What are you doing here?"

Romano's cheeks turned bright red. "I don't know, you bastard. All I remember was seeing your bare ass through the open door!"

Portugal pressed his hands against his face. "Did anyone else get into my room because they saw one of us naked?"

From the sheets of the destroyed bed, a tall figure rose like Frankenstein's monster, causing everyone to jump and scream.

"I'm afraid I also entered the room," the sheet slid off from the man.

"GERMANY?!" everyone cried out.

The blond country winced at the loud noise. "Please, don't talk so loud! And do not tell superiors what transpired here!"

The sheets on Germany's side moved, revealing a smiling North Italy. "Don't worry, Germany. I won't tell anything!"

"ITALY!"

As the rest of the room erupted into chaos, France kept smiling benevolently. He handed Portugal a glass of wine and saluted him.

"Thanks, Afonso! This was the best meeting we've had in years!" the long-haired blond man said. "I'm sorry about what happened with the fires, but I'm sure you'll get through this. You always have and always will."

As he tried to not drop the glass while holding a drunk and angry England, Portugal couldn't help but smile in return.

"Thank you."

He decided to enjoy his last hours at the hotel with his friends until they had to check out. When he got home, he was ready to start over.

He was not invisible, and he was not alone.


End file.
